The Black Freighter

by Fred G Baker

  He stretched and then sauntered to the car. He looked down at the Varoushka again as he did so—and noticed that another boat, maybe a whaler, was tied up to the stern with four divers in wetsuits on board. The boat pulled away and headed out on the same course that the Zodiac had taken.

  He arrived at Reefer Scuba Diving Adventures as Jimmy was saying goodbye to his customers. Wet Dog was accounting for all the gear they had used that day. Jimmy waved Wilson into his office and grabbed two Stag beers from the fridge on the way.

  “Hell of a day diving. The sea was real clear out at Rum Runner. We saw some angelfish, and people got good photos. Can’t get much better.”

  Wilson didn’t know the site, but took Jimmy’s word for the venture’s success. “Sounds great. I’m not much of a diver myself. Maybe I should go out with you one of these days.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but I haven’t got much on the Russians yet. We did see them go out past Canoe Bay twice today.” Jimmy took a swig of beer. “In fact, there were a couple of boats heading out as we came back in. We waved at the last crew, but they seemed like the sullen type. Great diving gear, though. I could see that from far off.”

  “I saw them loading four men on a boat just before you landed. Where are they going?”

  “Don’t know—but I got a man free tomorrow. I thought I’d send him out fishing to keep an eye on those Ruskies. They seem to be going around the point toward Shark Reef. That’s interesting diving near there, and it can get deep farther out.”

  “Anything new on the containers?”

  “No, but I’ll keep you informed when I do get anything.” Jimmy jumped up. “Gotta go. Meeting some tour guides from a cruise ship in an hour and need to freshen up for my sales pitch.” He laughed, and then saw Wilson to his car.

  Wilson drove along Morne Rouge Road and then crossed over to the airport road, looking for the address he had obtained from Tori Vargas’s room. It took a few tries, but after he asked a man at the CTEC gas station, he found the building. It was once a meetinghouse of some sort, perhaps an indoor badminton venue, and it was in an area with few other active commercial properties around it.

  There were several cars parked out front, and he could see a number of men standing in front of the building, smoking cigarettes and hanging out. He gave it a once-over as he drove by, not wanting to draw attention. He managed to find an empty lot nearby that gave him a view of the rear of the building. There was an ordinary backdoor and what looked like a former roll-up garage door. A man was standing beside the door, wearing a uniform—apparently on guard. Wilson drove by on the way back to Grand Anse Road and took a photo of the building with his cell phone.

  He thought it odd that the Venezuelans had rented a place far away from their conference hotel and near the airport. Maybe it was the best deal they could get. But what were they using it for?

  He decided against returning to the hotel for dinner, in case Tori Vargas appeared and made amorous overtures. Instead, he drove into Saint George’s to the Nutmeg House—a fine eatery near the harbor. There was a traffic jam by the marina due to a political demonstration. He turned down a side street to get around it, but then had trouble finding a place to park near the restaurant. Finally, he found a tiny space uphill from the Carenage, the inner harbor, and walked back three blocks to eat.

  He had been to the Nutmeg before and favored their delicious beef roti, a spicy Indian dish of curried meat and potatoes wrapped in garlic naan. He ordered a Carib beer to wash it down and settled in for fine dining while looking out of the window at the late-evening boat traffic in the harbor. It was dark, and the lights of the working ships and boats offered a picturesque view from the restaurant window.

  As he finished his third beer, he heard loud noises coming from the street. The demonstration had migrated toward the downtown from the marina. Men and women shouted campaign slogans with megaphones, and many voices chanted the various songs of the GPC organization. It was very loud, and Wilson wondered if he would be able to drive back past the throng of human chaos. Some in the crowd were throwing stones at passing cars, and he saw a man ignite several torches for their numbers.

  “Sir, you had better leave soon,” the waiter named Clarence said. “The demonstration is headed for the market, and they may be very angry tonight.” He stood by the table and craned his neck, watching the passing crowd. Suddenly, a stone came through the open window and crashed against the wall on the far side of the room. “Get ready to go, sir. Forget the bill. Just leave now. You can pay me tomorrow.”

  The waiter waved his hand at the busboy, who came over to the table. “Here—Jamal will show you how to get past the mob. Hurry, sir, before they get drunk and break things.” The man looked afraid—like he had seen this mischief before.

  Wilson threw money on the table to cover his bill and hurried to the stairs, where the twelve-year-old Jamal waited, looking frightened. The boy ran down the stairs and stopped dead on the last step, surveying the dark street. Then, he ran across the alleyway—as if he had some practice at sneaking about in the dark. A few men were already marching up the street, and they shouted at the two of them as they scurried along. As Wilson ran after the boy in the dark, he heard feet chasing behind them. He followed Jamal as closely as he could, staying ahead of their pursuers—but the boy knew where he was going and could make better speed.

  They came to a cross street Wilson recognized. “My car is down here.”

  The boy stopped, eyes wide as he listened to the crowd gaining on them. He shouted, “Not that way, sir. Come—like this.” He ran into a dark alley with Wilson on his heels. The men who were chasing them ran past on the street as they crept along the pitch-black alley.

  They turned and walked through the backyard of a small house and onto a dirt path. Wilson couldn’t see where he was going and so had to trust the boy to know the way. They could hear men shouting in the streets around them. It sounded like the demonstration had turned into a mob, which had started to break windows and beat cars they encountered on the street. Wilson hoped Jamal could get him out of there safely. He began to fear what would happen if the mob caught them in the open.

  They came out onto the street again, and Wilson saw his car. The street was dark and empty of people, but they could hear shouting and a megaphone only one block away. He opened the car door and started it while the boy stood lookout next to his door.

  Wilson began pulling the car forward into the lane, but the boy pointed the other way. “You must go this way, or you find mob.” That was the wrong direction on the one-way street, but who cared. “Thank you, Jamal!” The boy knew how to get around the town, and he vanished into the night within seconds.

  Wilson pulled away with no lights on. He drove the wrong way for two blocks and encountered no one else. He turned onto the first street he knew would take him to the marina. He hoped it was safe to pass there now that the mob had moved downtown.

  Within a block, he came to a flank of the demonstration, and people turned on him, throwing rocks and shouting. A few ran after him as he quickly backed up the street again.

  Someone shouted, “Look, a rental car! A foreigner. Get him!” The R license plate was a dead giveaway for a rental and, therefore, a foreigner of some kind. The hair on Wilson’s neck rose, and a shiver of fear ran through him. He began to panic.

  Suddenly, fourteen men were running his way—some with long, wooden sticks in their hands, a few with placards, but all with hate in their eyes. Wilson reversed as fast as he could on the narrow street. The deep, treacherous storm gutters on each side of the road yawned open, just waiting for him to swerve into them and hang his car up on the chassis. One wheel in there and he would never get out without a tow. But the gutter made it hard for the men chasing him to run alongside and break the side windows of the car. They seemed content running up close and striking the car’s hood with their clubs and sticks. Sweat poured from Wilson’s face as he locked eyes with one of the rioters. That man will
kill me if he can, he thought.

  He reversed to the next side street and immediately turned left, driving several blocks farther along the hillside to the next street he knew would take him to safety. The runners fell away as he lurched forward and escaped. As he came out onto the road that ran to Grand Anse, he knew he’d been lucky. There were only a few stragglers left in the area, and a policeman waved him through the main intersection. He was safe. He let out a deep breath and wiped the sweat off his face with his hands. That was close, he thought.

  Across the harbor, he could see fires where the demonstrators were burning pallets stored along the quay. The demonstration had turned into another riot. He wondered who was behind it. Who would benefit from another violent altercation? If this kept up, many people would be afraid to be on the streets at night.

  He drove back to the hotel, and Leslie, the guard, commented on the damaged vehicle. “No insurance gonna pay for riot damage, Mr. Wilson. Best say a tree fell on da car.” He chortled.

  “Thank you, Leslie. I may do just that.” He inspected the hood when he parked the car. Just what he needed. The hood was dented in several places, paint chipped off here and there.

  He crept along the vegetation-lined pathway to his room. It was only ten o’clock, and he should have talked to Gordon one more time, but then there was the possibility of a Vargas encounter. Instead, he crept directly to his room.

  Something seemed off as he entered his room, and he went on alert immediately. He moved around the room carefully, checking that nothing was missing and that no one was there. Then, he examined his computer to be sure it had not been tampered with. It was very secure, so no one could break into his machine without his passwords or a supercomputer to decrypt his accounts. But it looked like it had been moved from the position he had left it in that afternoon. Maybe the maid came in and dusted again. He couldn’t be sure, but nothing else seemed out of place.

  He let it go, but decided he could not leave his computer out in the open from then on. It had been a very long day, so he simply called it a night. He lay there with the patio door open, the sea breeze ruffling the curtains and a light rain pattering on the patio railing. He couldn’t sleep.

  As he reviewed the day’s events, he felt as though he was missing something. He raised himself up on one elbow and stared out to sea. The black freighter seemed to mock him as it rode the waves silently, revealing nothing and yet taunting him with its secrets.

  Chapter 7

  Friday

  The next morning began with a rain shower and a stiff sea wind. The waves on the beach were higher than usual, reducing the number of bathers, but providing more challenge to the hardy souls who surfed the breakers. Heavy clouds hung over the island’s central mountains, suggesting that late-afternoon rain would fall. Rainstorms often formed on the dark, rain-forested heights and then swept down to the lower elevations. The clouds were an indicator of a downpour to come.

  Wilson had breakfast on the hotel patio, where they always delivered a big buffet of fruits, an egg station, baked goods, assorted side dishes, and smoked back bacon—the English equivalent of American bacon. The coffee was fresh Grenada beans roasted to perfection.

  He read the local weekly newspaper, the Bomb. There was a short article about the damage inflicted downtown by last night’s so-called peaceful demonstration that had turned ugly. Most damage was against inanimate property. There had been only a few injuries to people who’d been trapped by the mob. All commentary by locals was that this was not like Grenada at all. They never had riots in the street like this—at least not for many years. So what’s changed? he wondered. Was it just overly enthusiastic campaigning? Or did someone organize the riot?

  He sat at the table and observed the other guests, mostly vacationers as the weekend approached. There was a small group from Trinidad, a wedding party assembling for the big day, and several tables of Venezuelans—some subdued by hangovers, some just beginning to party again. They seemed to have a lot of time on their hands—no one seemed to be discussing the conference.

  Gordon came to the table and told him his friend had arrived, so Wilson signed off on the bill and followed him at a distance to the laundry building. Gordon nodded toward one door and then continued on with his other duties. Wilson looked around to be sure he was not observed.

  Wilson turned the door latch and stepped into a laundry sorting room used by the staff for folding and pressing linens, sheets, and towels. He crossed to the other side of the room, where a small, bald, black man stood admiring the view out of a ground-level window. He was known to Wilson only as Edgar, one of the people behind the NSP campaign. His position with that group was unclear, but he was pointed out to Wilson as a man who could arrange a street demonstration at the Wong site. He got right to the point.

  “Some of my people want to postpone again. The police are really uptight about the riot last night and may not give us a permit for a gathering.” He looked grim. “I don’t know whether to press the matter, or if you can postpone. All I know is this favor may become difficult to provide. Gordon said it was important, so I assume there is a good reason for it.”

  “It’s important to draw attention to the influence that the Chinese have on the island, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but in this manner? I wonder if we cannot just do a letter-writing campaign.” He hesitated. “And why must it be at night? And so late? It will not gain much television attention.”

  “I can’t be more specific about the reasons behind the demonstration—but it is important.” Wilson had a sinking feeling. “How about tomorrow night?”

  “In that case, I will see what I can do. I will pass an answer through Gordon.” He looked even more grim-faced than before, but attempted a smile to show his support. Then, he left the room through another doorway—after checking that he would not be seen by a passerby.

  Wilson stood for a moment in thought. He realized he needed a backup plan. He would talk to Madeline to see if she had any ideas. In any case, they would postpone the operation until Saturday night—another delay.

  He left the laundry and walked back to his room via the jungle path he had come to enjoy, with its birdlife and flowers everywhere. The maid was in the room, as evidenced by her service cart outside the door. He knocked and entered, saying, “Good morning,” as he did.

  “Good morning,” she said, smiling as she continued her work.

  He picked up his computer and continued to the balcony as she sang to herself and scrubbed the sink in the bathroom. She was a new maid to him—perhaps because it was Friday, the day for a shift change.

  On the balcony, he turned his gaze to the black freighter, which floated exactly where it had been all week. He scanned it with his binos in case there had been any change on board. The position of the rear crane was a little different. Perhaps they had shifted one of the containers on the deck for some reason. He could see three men repairing one of the antennas, and they may have installed another revolving radar unit on top of the stern structure, but that was it. Nothing else seemed out of character.

  The maid called out that she was finished and left the room with a soft click of the door. He set about reading email messages from Langley. They had another question about the surveillance he had proposed and had passed it up the ranks to the section chief for his approval on Monday. Of course, as far as they knew, it was happening tonight. It wouldn’t matter what they eventually decided. It would be too late.

  Langley did have information on the container numbers that he had sent them. There was concern that there had been a transmission error, because a few of the numbers from the hidden containers did not make sense. They were attributed to units that had been lost at sea on board the El Faro freighter during Hurricane Joaquin in October, 2015. Because the ship sank with all hands, and all onboard freight was lost, the numbers must be incorrect. He was instructed to verify the numbers in the field and resubmit them for analysis.

  He sat back in his chair and
pondered the news. Could there have been an error with the numbers of the containers on El Faro? That seemed unlikely, as any insurance claims would have led to extensive verification of what had been on board, what had sunk, and what had not. Still, he sent a message asking for verification of the numbers lost on the El Faro and said he would verify the numbers on his end.

  Another possibility came to mind. Maybe, someone had repainted the numbers on the hidden containers so that no one could tell which ship they had really came from—just in case someone like Wilson came along and questioned them. It would be an easy enough change and hard to detect, unless someone in the harbor noticed a problem with the numbering or paint.

  He would need an accounting of all Wong containers offloaded in Saint George’s since Wong began its work, several months before. Then, he might be able to estimate how many units were unaccounted for. He could see if some of them were renumbered as the hidden containers. If he asked Lightchurch to collect this information through his source, they might get a response today—Friday—before the weekend. He sent off a coded message right away.

  He finished all communication and locked up his computer in a case he carried with him. He left a message for Madeline and then decided he would look for her at the warehouse. With that in mind, he stepped out of the room and into the outdoor corridor that ran along the length of the building.

  To his surprise, he bumped into Tori Vargas.

  “So, Roberto—this is where you are hiding out.” Vargas was very enthusiastic, as usual—a radiant smile on her lips. “I wondered if you were still at the hotel.” She put a hand on his arm and leaned into him. “Listen, Roberto. I am so sorry and embarrassed about yesterday. I don’t know what happened. I guess I had too much rum.”

  “Hi, Tori,” he said, improvising. “Do you feel OK today?”

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled, and then looked frustrated. “I can’t remember what happened, except that I woke up on my bed that afternoon still in my bathing suit. I remember us walking to my room, then nothing.”